


Smashing Stereotypes

by tillyenna



Series: Darling - I'd bare my neck to You [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe D/s, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tillyenna/pseuds/tillyenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where submissives are only just beginning to get rights, 17 year old Clint Barton is recruited into SHIELD and is about to meet the most Dominant man he ever will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Clint Barton came round, there was a throbbing pain in his leg where the bullet wound was and he was in a bleak hospital room. He tried to move and quickly found out he was handcuffed to the bed – clearly even after he’d agreed to come in and work for them, he still wasn’t trusted. He let out a huff of air but supposed it was fair; it wasn’t like he trusted them either.

The door opened and a nurse walked in. “Good afternoon, Mr Barton,” she smiled softly.

Clint tried not to growl at her, he wasn’t Mr Barton, Mr Barton was a dick, both of them were, and he wasn’t either of them.

Seemingly oblivious to his silent objection she breezed around the room. “I’ve taken you off the sedative,” she said in sing-song tones, “and I’ve brought a wheelchair across. I’m going to take you up to see Deputy Director Fury.”

“I can walk,” Clint snarled.

“Now now,” she tutted, wagging her finger at him like he was a naughty child. “You were shot in the leg yesterday, I really don’t think that’s wise.”

“So bring me crutches.” Clint fixed her with his best glare, he really wasn’t in the mood for arguments.  
The nurse pursed her lips together and briefly stepped out of the room; when she came back, she was carrying a pair of crutches but the look of disapproval was still on her face.

It was 7 flights up the stairs to his destination and Clint refused to take the lift. It was hard work on his crutches, he was exhausted and it felt like the pain killers had worn off, but he was damned if he was going to let that show. He fixed a grin on his face as the nurse knocked softly on the door labelled simply with the words ‘Deputy Director’

“Come in,” a voice drawled from inside.

“Deputy Director Fury,” the irritating nurse chimed. “I’ve brought Mr Barton up to see you.”

Clint hopped into the room, staring at the man in front of him. Fury sat with his feet up on the desk, boots looming large over his paperwork, he was leaning back in his chair, chewing on something indistinguishable. A long black leather coat pooled on the floor around him, but his most distinguishing feature was the bandage covering half his head and one of his eyes.

“Take a seat, Barton.”

“I’m good with standing.” Clint smirked at him, there was no way he was going to show weakness in front of this clown.

“You should sit,” a second voice spoke up and Clint’s head whipped around to look at where it originated. “We’ll be here a while, so you might as well.” The speaker was sat on the opposite side of the desk to Fury, an empty seat beside him, hair cut neatly, suit perfectly fitted; he looked every bit the g-man Clint knew he wasn’t.

“You shot me,” he spluttered, adding almost as an afterthought, “asshole.”

The g-man just shrugged, fixing him with a stare that said quite clearly ‘You deserved it’, before saying quietly, with barely a hint of a smirk on his face, “My apologies, Barton, I thought you could take a shot to the leg.”

Grumbling, Clint sat down in the seat beside him.

“Barton,” Fury swung his feet off the desk, leaning forward, elbows on the desk, staring at Clint with his one good eye. “Welcome to SHIELD. I’m Deputy Director Fury – I'm as senior as you're going to get at the moment since I’m afraid our Director was recently killed in action and we’ve not managed to replace him just yet.” He left no pause for Clint to offer his condolences, they both knew he wouldn’t. “ You’ve already met Agent Coulson...”

Coulson nodded at him, brief and calculated.

Clint shot him a glare in response.

“Now,” ignoring any tension between the two of them Fury carried on, “you’ve already accepted our offer, so this is just a technicality really. We’d be pleased to offer you a position within SHIELD, although you’ll have to undergo basic training before you’re allowed back into the field. In recompense for this you’ll get food, lodgings and a generous salary. Obviously this will be on probation during your training and you will not be allowed to leave base without a supervisor.”

“That’s bullshit,” Clint muttered.

“You disagree with that last condition?” Fury smirked at him.

After a moment’s thought Clint threw him a careless shrug. “Tell you what,” he laughed hollowly, “find me a supervisor who won’t lose me and you’re on.”

Fury ignored his boasting and carried on, “We’ve run a background check on you, as we do with all potential recruits and, of course, nothing’s come up through the official channels. Not that we weren’t expecting that. You only appeared in one place, which is the state of Iowa where you registered as a submissive. Now we’re not prejudiced here and we recognise everybody has equal rights, so we’ll do our utmost to make sure that your fellow recruits treat you as they would each other.” He paused, noticing that Clint was staring at him, a quiet expression of shock on his face.

“I’m a what now?” he said quietly.

“You’re a registered sub,” Fury confirmed, “in the state of Iowa. It’s definitely you, DNA and retinal scans match.”

“I ain’t never registered nowhere,” Clint started defensively, trying to get to his feet, and failing, gripping the edges of his seat as he remembered the bullet wound in his leg with a jolt of agony. He glared darkly at Fury as he admitted, “I don’t even know what that means.” He’d noticed submissive tendencies in himself for a while now, but hadn’t realised it was something that could be in any way official.

“In Barton’s defence,” Coulson spoke up, “he’s only seventeen, he’s not legally old enough to have registered himself.”

“Child registration’s been banned for nearly a decade now, he couldn’t have been registered at seven!” Fury protested.

“What the fuck are you two on about? What’s a registration?”

Coulson turned to him, “Submissives have the right to be registered if they so wish, although it’s not yet a legal requirement. It would give you certain rights within a court of law, some get out clauses, but there’s a lot of social stigma attached so not a lot of subs do register. It would have had to have been a long time ago, in a pretty official looking place, and they’d have made you sit some tests.”

Clint shrugged, “I had to do a load of papers after I joined Carson’s. They told me it was just to prove I was too stupid to go to school.” He tries to hide the burn of shame that threatens the tips of his ears. “There were doctors too, they injected me, or maybe took blood or something – I think it was at the town hall.”

“Sounds likely,” Fury sighed. “If you’re a Dominant mis-registered as a submissive we can get that rectified, however we’ll need you to sit papers to prove you are.”

“Fuck off,” Clint snapped at him. “I’m not doing any more fucking tests.”

Fury was on his feet in an instant, “That was an order, Barton, you don’t get a choice.”

Clint stood up to meet him, ignoring the shooting pain in his leg and the fact that Fury towered over him. “Make me,” he snarled.

“Barton.” Coulson’s quiet voice cut through the room. “You will sit the tests.” He glanced at Fury, “I’ll read the questions to him and scribe for him myself.”

“Do whatever you need to,” Fury sighed, sitting back down in his chair. “He’s your problem now anyway.” 

He didn’t even glance up at Clint as he shuffled the papers on his desk. “Dismissed. Both of you,” he snapped.

Barton found himself following Coulson out of the office. The suited man didn’t slow down, but Clint’s arms were strong and he had no difficulty keeping up with him on his crutches. They rounded a corner and stopped a little way down a corridor, outside a plain, unmarked door.

Coulson took out a key and unlocked the door, a hint of tension bleeding from his shoulders as he stepped over the threshold, flicking on the lights. “Welcome to my office, Clint.” He gestured to the chair on the near side of the desk, “Take a seat.”

Clint lowered himself gingerly into the chair, setting his crutches on the floor beside him.

“I really am sorry about shooting you,” Coulson said, no hint of emotion in his voice as he powered up his PC.

“No you’re not,” Clint muttered.

“Fine,” Coulson sighed, sitting down and leaning back in his chair. “I’m not, it was unavoidable.” His lips twitched up virtually invisibly at the corner, almost a smile, “But I do wish it hadn’t been.”

“Thanks.” Clint felt an answering twitch at the corner of his own mouth.

Coulson opened a drawer in a nearby filing cabinet and drew out the blank forms they needed, “Shall we get started then?”

It took several hours and Clint found himself answering the latter part with his forehead resting on the desk, responding to the seemingly pointless questions.

“I’m sorry,” Coulson had apologised halfway through, “psychometric testing is a terribly boring experience.”

After a few hours they were done, Coulson having filled in all the relevant boxes with a 2B pencil, shading them meticulously as Clint had pondered his answers, and put it into the scanner for the answer to appear on his computer screen.

“While we wait,” Coulson steepled his fingers together, “I’ll go over a few details Deputy Director Fury missed.”

“Do you have to call him that all the time?” Clint asked with a snigger. “It’s a bit of a mouthful.”

“I'll be honest with you,” Coulson resisted the urge to mention the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics division, “he’s likely to be Director Fury soon, there are just a few formalities to be completed before his promotion.”

“Wow,” Clint snorted. “You bureaucrats do love your paperwork, don’t you?”

“Passionately,” Coulson answered drily, before continuing. “You’ll be given quarters here on base for the time being, they’re pretty basic and we understand you don’t have a lot of possessions at the moment, so if you need anything to make it a bit more comfortable, things the other trainees might be bringing from their previous lives, come and talk to me and I’ll see what we can do.”

Clint gave a half hearted shrug in response, he didn’t know why this suit was being nice to him.

“I’ll be your handler,” Coulson carried on. “That means I’m your point of contact for anything and everything, although you’ll be doing a lot of work with my colleague Jasper Sitwell as he’s the handler for all the other recruits.”

“Why am I special?” Clint asked, genuinely curious.

“Lots of reasons,” Coulson admitted openly. “You’re a lot younger than the rest of our current recruits and you’re coming in from a very different direction; most of them are ex-army or postgraduate students, not ex-criminal.” He fixed Clint with a steely gaze, “And we’re expecting you to be better than them and progress faster.”

Clint smirked arrogantly back at him. “I will,” he promised.

“Now then,” Coulson looked across at his screen. “Looks like your results are in, would you rather I left the room for you to read them?”

Clint shrugged. “Nothing to hide,” he said simply.

Coulson clicked a few buttons and his expression was carefully blank as the results appeared. “You’ve scored 93%,” he said softly.

“What does that mean?”

“Well,” Coulson’s brows knitted together as he recalled the statistics. “A score of below 30% shows dominant tendencies, a score of above 70% shows submissive tendencies.”

“So it thinks I’m a sub?” Clint asked, trying to wrap his head around the numbers. “A pretty subby sub by the sound of things.”

“Is that something you’d disagree with?” Coulson asked carefully.

Clint shrugged, “I don’t like people telling me what to do and I don’t like people who try to make me do things I don’t want to.” He glanced at Coulson, genuine uncertainty in his gaze, “Doesn’t that pretty much mean I’m not a sub?”

“No,” Coulson tried to keep the smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth; as much as he felt the need to comfort the young man, he had a reputation to maintain. “It just means you have Issues.” His intonation made the capital letter perfectly clear. “Unless you went out of your way to manipulate it, the test is likely to be accurate.”

“Does it make a difference to anything?”

“It shouldn’t do.” Coulson shuffled the papers on his desk as he explained, guessing that Clint’s grasp of current affairs over the last decade wouldn’t be brilliant. “Subs have a lot more rights than they used to and you’re entitled to be treated equally, including not being prejudiced against in terms of employment – although people do still have a lot of preconceptions. You won’t meet a lot of other subs in SHIELD, it’s not the kind of job that tends to attract the kind of personalities submissives have, but then again, that’s a huge generalisation, and I’m sure we do have some subs working for us as well as you.”

“And what about the registration?”

Coulson sighed softly, “Unfortunately there’s nothing we can do to change that, anyone with your full name can look you up on the database and see you are registered.” He lifted his gaze to meet Clint’s, “However, with the kind of organisation SHIELD is, and the kind of work you’ll be doing, we’ll be doing the best we can to avoid people finding out your name.”

“Well,” Clint shrugged, “I guess there’s not much for me to do about it all anyway.”

“If anyone makes an issue out of it,” Coulson jabbed his finger down on the desk to make his point, “you come and tell me OK? It’s not something you should be dealing with alone, it would be something to be dealt with at a disciplinary level.”

Clint just shrugged again, not really taking it in.

Clint found himself settling into the routine of being at SHIELD fairly easily. Having a warm bed at night and hot food three times a day was easy to get used to. He was the youngest of the recruits by a long way, but was also the most competent, and the classes they had to undertake were mostly easy to him. He’d feel bad about being so arrogant, even to himself, but the rest of the recruits were also, largely, dicks. He’d gotten into the habit of eating alone in the cafeteria, and most people had started to leave him that way having been met with his sullen insolence when they tried to converse with him.

“So,” Richards, one of the most dickish recruits sat down opposite him, slamming his own tray down across from Clint’s. “I googled you.”

“That’s nice for you.” Clint stared resolutely at his lunch.

“That’s nice for you... Sir,” Richards corrected.

Clint sighed inwardly, he’d been waiting for this and Coulson had warned him about it. He quietly carried on eating his dinner.

“Disobedient little fuck, aren’t you?” Richards snorted and, in one smooth movement, flicked Clint’s plate onto the floor.

Immediately the cafeteria went silent. All eyes were turned towards them. Clint pushed his chair back, standing silently and heading towards the door, carefully trying to avoid the fight. Unfortunately for him, Richards had a different idea. He reached out and kicked Clint in the back of the knee pushing him in the shoulders to try and force him to his knees.

Clint spun around, having never lost his balance, springing up and punching Richards in the face. Instantly Richards' cronies were surrounding him but, although it was 4 against 1, they probably could have used a few more friends to make it a fair fight. He’d floored a couple of them by the time Coulson appeared behind him.

“Stand down Barton,” he snapped, loudly enough that his voice carried across the cafeteria.

Already on the defensive, Clint turned around and snapped back at him, “Make me.”

He barely had time to realise what was happening before his chin smacked into the cafeteria floor, his arm was twisted up behind his back and Coulson was dragging him up by his collar. “My office. Now,” he snarled as he dragged him out of the cafeteria.

He half dragged Clint up to his office and threw him down onto the floor as soon as they got in, slamming the door behind them.

“If I give you an order, Barton, you obey it. Understood?”

Clint just spat blood onto his neat office carpet as a response.

Coulson reached down and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him up and manhandling him onto the sofa. He knelt down in front of him, grabbing him by the chin and forcing Clint to meet his gaze. “You are recovering from a bullet wound, Clint. We want you fit for fieldwork as soon as possible, that means you have to look after yourself.”

“And slamming me into the floor helps with that, does it?” Clint snarked back.

“I’m sorry.” Coulson reached out and brushed a soft hand across Clint’s cheekbone where the skin had split and a bruise was starting to form. “You need to learn to do what I tell you.”

Clint snarled back at him, flinching away from the Agent’s touch, “I don’t like following orders, I told you that.”

Coulson sighed, rocking back on his haunches, “I wouldn’t tell you to do anything that wasn’t in your best interests. You need to trust me.”

“Yeah, well,” Clint snorted. “I don’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

Two years later and he was getting there. Phil Coulson had managed to get under his skin and he trusted him, even called him Sir occasionally, although he didn’t like to think about the implications of that too hard. He followed orders, but only the ones Coulson gave him. It had gotten to the point where no other handler would work with him, which suited the pair of them just fine.

It all went wrong on a mission which went entirely FUBAR. Clint was part of a team, which he hated, since he was a sniper and snipers work best alone, but for some unknown reason SHIELD occasionally decided to put him with a group of people. Probably for the same reasons they decided to put him on missions which weren’t organised from start to finish by Coulson, another thing Clint hated, and when he turned up five minutes before wheels up and saw Richards as a part of his team he had known the mission was doomed.

They were in the middle of nowhere out in eastern Europe, and some megalomaniac had captured them. Clint thought it was probably to do with the fact that most of the rest of his team walked through the woods like a herd of elephants, but nonetheless they found themselves locked in a cell, handcuffed to the wall and taken out routinely for beatings on an apparently random rota, which Clint felt featured him a little too heavily.

SHIELD would come and get them, of course they would, for one thing, he was one of Coulson’s agents, and Coulson doesn’t lose people - ever. But until the moment when their extraction team arrive he had to put up alternately with torture from some evil crazed group who still seemed to think they were going to get some useful information out of him (like Clint was ever told anything of importance) and jibes from the rest of his teammates.

“Bet you’re loving this, aren’t you?” Richards had sneered as Clint was dragged back into the room for the third time and shackled to the wall, handcuffs well above his head leaving him uncomfortably stretched.

“Fuck off,” Clint snarled in response, it was either that or give Richards the same name-rank-serial number bullshit he’d been giving the enemy.

“Tied up, beaten regularly, treated like the scum of the earth - this is like a holiday for you, isn’t it, Barton?”

Clint sighed and turned his face away, patiently waiting his rescue.

When it came, Clint was just as effective in getting out of the base and destroying as many bad guys on the way out as every other member of the team, but as soon as he was strapped into his seat on the jet, his hands began to shake. He ignored it and clamped his teeth together to stop them chattering too loudly - he couldn’t afford to let anyone see any weakness from him, he’d never live it down. As they landed back on the helicarrier they were all ordered to go to medical, but when Clint stepped off the jet, knees almost buckling under the pressure, Agent Coulson was stood there waiting for him.

“My office, Barton. Now,” he snapped.

“Barton’s been ordered to go to medical,” the agent running the op contradicted him, before adding in a lower voice, “and I think he’s in shock.”

Coulson merely raised an eyebrow at her, that one simple movement effectively conveying what he thought of people who tried to contradict his orders. “Fall in Barton,” he snapped simply and turned on his heel, heading down the corridor to his office.

Oozing gratitude, Clint fell into step behind him, having to worry about nothing but the smart click of Coulson’s heels on the floor and following them with the heavy thump of his own boots.

As soon as they had stepped into his office, Coulson closed the door behind them and locked it with a click, turning the blinds so no-one could see in. “Have you sustained any injuries?” he asked, using the tone of voice that Clint knew meant he’d be in trouble if he lied.

“Not any serious ones, Sir,” he compromised. It was a slight lie, but let Coulson know he was injured.

“Anything which needs urgent medical attention?”

Clint mentally catalogued his various scrapes in his mind, strained shoulders, broken fingers, his kneecap had dislocated but was back in the socket now and any of the cuts he’d had had long stopped bleeding. “No, Sir.”

“Good,” Coulson’s shoulders softened slightly. “Sit down Barton, on the couch,” he ordered, his voice less harsh this time, the edge that was there previously missing now.

“Were you worried about me, Sir?” Clint smirked at him.

For the first time since they’d gotten into his office Coulson turned to face him. “I still am, Barton,” he sighed. He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful before he stated, “I’m going to sit down beside you. Will that make you feel uncomfortable?”   
Clint stopped, allowed himself for a moment to think about the concept of Coulson sitting next to him, their shoulders brushing against each other. “No, Sir,” he admitted.

Coulson sat down beside him on the sofa, just as stiff and awkward as Barton himself. “You did really well out there Clint,” he said softly, it was the first time he’d ever used Clint’s first name.

The archer simply snorted in response. “We got captured!” he protested.

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“And I’ve been trained to withstand torture anyway.”

“Clint!” Coulson reached out with a hand to cup Barton’s cheek, turning his face so their eyes met, “That wasn’t what I was talking about.” At the younger man’s confused expression he continued gently. “I meant, you did really well not to kill anyone else in that cell with you. We train you to deal with terrorists, we don’t train you to deal with men like Richards.” His thumb softly stroked Barton’s cheek, “I’m impressed with you.”

“You mean killing him was an option?” Clint grinned at him, feeling himself relax for the first time since he’d been captured.

Coulson rolled his eyes and pulled his hand away from Clint’s cheek, but noticing the way the archer visibly drooped at the lack of contact he asked, “How would you feel if I put my arm around you?”

Clint bit his lower lip for a moment while he thought. “I’d be OK, Sir,” he admitted grudgingly, as if Coulson was doing it for his own benefit - which partially he was.

He slipped an arm around Clint’s shoulders and pulled him in slowly, fighting hard not to smile as the younger man let his head rest on his shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he whispered softly, his thumb brushing over Clint’s bicep.

“Am I in shock, Sir?” Clint asked quietly.

Coulson took a deep breath, “Not exactly,” he admitted. “You’re experiencing sub-drop.” He kept his hand rubbing soothingly against Clint’s arm as he explained, “I suppose it’s a sort of shock, it’s what happens when a sub has been abused without the proper care afterwards.” He turned his head so he was talking into Clint’s hair as he continued. “And it’s not something you can just push through and get over on your own,” he explained, he knew what Clint was like, “You’re going to need to let someone to take care of you for the next few hours in order to get better.” He fought back his feelings of anger at Clint’s childhood - most subs would have been given all this information by their doctor or care worker when they discovered their orientation and here Clint was, already in his early twenties, having to discover it all for himself.

“Someone meaning you?” Clint whispered.

“If you’d like,” Coulson answered diplomatically, “If you feel there’d be someone more appropriate I can go and find them for you.”

“No,” Clint surprised himself with the speed of his answer, his head jerking up to look at Coulson. “I mean, it’s cool with you,” he mumbled, attempting to appear nonchalant once more. He sat there for a few moments, Coulson’s arm around his shoulder, Coulson’s fingertips rubbing against his arm before he asked, “Are you a Dom, Sir?”

Coulson couldn't help it, he’s only human, and the words, “Would you want me to be?” were out of his mouth before his brain has caught up. “Sorry!” he spluttered, pulling away from Barton, “that was incredibly unprofessional.” He felt a hint of a blush staining just the very tips of his ears and most people probably wouldn’t notice it, but Barton’s observation skills had never been described as ordinary. “I’d rather have this conversation when we’re not on the clock,” he admitted softly.

Clint looked up at him, a slight twinkle in his eye, his trademark smirk on his lips, “Take me to dinner sometime then,” he grinned, and without waiting for a response shifted so he was lying against Coulson, his head in Coulson’s lap.

“In a more professional answer to your question,” Coulson continued, almost as if Clint hadn’t been flirting with him moments ago, “my psychometric profiling score was 10%.” He let his fingers card through Clint’s hair.

“Really?” Clint barely opened his eyes, clearly starting to relax. “That’s pretty low,” he smirked up at Coulson. “You’re a pretty dommy Dom.” 

“That’s not a word, Barton,” Coulson couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice. “A score of below 10% represents what is known as an alpha-dom.”

“Do I know any?” Clint asked, genuinely curious.

“There aren’t actually that many, a few historical figures. Captain America was one,” Coulson grinned, early on Clint had done enough sneaking around to find out about his Captain America obsession. “Fury might be, but I’ve never asked. Quite a few presidents have been, it’s the sort of personality that lends itself to that sort of job.”   
“And you,” Clint grinned sleepily at him, his hand had fisted itself in the edge of Coulson’s jacket. 

Coulson shook his head fondly, “Not quite,” he contradicted. “I said under 10%.”

“Doesn’t that irritate you?”

Coulson paused for a moment, contemplating briefly if it did. He was sat there, on his sofa, in his office where he had a lot of minions to run around and do jobs for him and only really one person who could give him orders, he had a gorgeous sub sat in his lap letting him stroke his hair, a sub who wouldn’t let anyone else near him. “No,” he said honestly, “I’m quite good like this.”

The next day, after Barton had had his debriefing, he wandered up to Coulson’s office - he’d gotten into the habit of stopping there for a chat or a coffee as the man kept amazing coffees and he always had a sugary treat of some kind to offer. When he got there Coulson was on the telephone, so he slipped silently inside and put the coffee machine on, sitting down in his chair, opposite Coulson (how easily it had become ‘his’) and waiting patiently. 

“Sorry about that,” Coulson said when he put the phone down a few minutes later. “How are you feeling today?” he asked, as he got up to pour the coffees.  “Much better thank you, Sir,” Clint grinned at him. “I’ve spent my morning dropping down from the vents to scare some of the new recruits.”

“Did you manage to scare any of them?” Coulson asked, amused, “because if so, I don’t think our recruiting officers are very good.”

They sat there, chatting comfortably as they drank their coffees. Sometimes Coulson would have to answer the phone or someone would stick their head around the door to ask him something, but mostly they just sat and talked about nothing in particular. It was a pleasant break in the middle of the day, for both of them. Eventually though Coulson had a meeting to go to and Barton was due down on the range, so he stood to go.

“Clint,” Coulson said softly, just as the other man was reaching the door, it was the first time he’d used the younger man’s first name since their intimate encounter the day before. “I just thought I’d let you know it’s common courtesy not to take anything a sub says whilst in sub-space, or during a drop, at face value. Or rather, not to hold them to anything they say,” he blundered slightly awkwardly, straightening the paperwork on his desk to avoid looking Barton in the eye.

“Oh,” Clint shrugged. “Thanks,” he said with a grin and, opening the door, stepped out into the corridor. The door had almost clicked shut when it swung open again abruptly and Clint’s head poked around the door, a look of realisation on his face. “I still think you should ask me out to dinner, Sir,” he grinned cheekily.

Coulson had to fight considerably harder than usual to keep the grin off his face. “Thursday?” he asked coolly.

“Thursday sounds good,” Clint grinned unashamedly at him.

Coulson can’t help himself, so he promised, “If you’ve been good, I’ll cook for you.”

Clint ripped off a lazy salute, “Best behaviour, Sir, I promise.”

True to his word, they managed to get to Thursday without Clint getting into any serious trouble – so maybe Coulson had to discipline him for scaring the new recruits and another one of the handlers had mentioned his excessive use of swear words in a report he’d handed in, but really for Clint that practically was his best behaviour. He hadn't seen Clint all day, but every door in the building was electronically activated and logged who passed through it, so he knew where he was. He clocked off at 6.30, before heading down to the range to find him.

Unusually, Clint was stood on the usual range, with a pistol in his hand, instead of the long distance range he usually frequented with his bow. He held up a hand to Coulson, signalling to him to wait for a moment and fired off six more shots. He slipped off his earphones and swaggered down to the target, snatching the paper sheet off it. Grinning as he walked back he handed it over to Coulson. “You said if I’d been good you’d cook,” he smirked, “I think that’s pretty good, don’t you, Sir?”

Coulson stared down at the paper, both impressed and utterly horrified. It contained, in bullet holes, the initials P.C. surrounded by a heart.

“What’s the P for, Sir?” Clint asked cheekily

Coulson shot him a look. “That’s above your clearance level,” he said dryly before turning on his heel. “Come along Barton, I’m hungry.”

Clint surprised himself by obeying. He was often surprised by how easily he followed Coulson’s orders and now he was trotting along happily at Coulson’s heel. Coulson’s house was nothing like he’d have imagined – it was a lot classier for one thing, Coulson must get paid a hell of a lot more than Clint had previously thought and there was a cat sitting in the window sill waiting for him. Clint knew what Coulson was like about his suits so he questioned it. “Aren’t you worried about cat hair on your clothes?” he teased.

“I didn’t chose to have a cat,” Coulson muttered wearily, it sounded oddly like the tone of voice he used when someone announced Barton was up in the vents, again. “It just appeared and I couldn’t very well leave it to starve.” He unlocked the door, ushering Clint in, “He’s called Erskine.”

Erskine followed them into the kitchen where Coulson took Clint’s coat and hung it on the back of the door, along with his own suit jacket. “You want a beer?” he asked, loosening his tie and pulling it over his head. “Or a soft drink?” he offered, slightly more hesitantly when he saw Clint’s gaping face. “Yes? No?” he prompted reaching out and waving a hand in front of Clint’s gormless expression.

“I always assumed the tie was sort of, part of you...” Clint stuttered, faking shock

“You’re an ass, Barton,” Coulson sighed, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and undoing the top button of his shirt. “Here I am, preparing to cook you dinner and you’re just being rude.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Clint grinned at him, utterly unapologetic. “It’s hot though,” he added, almost as an afterthought, speaking quickly as if that would lessen the awkwardness of what he was saying. “You without a tie that is.”

“Glad you think so,” Coulson turned to the fridge to start getting out drinks and the ingredients for dinner. “It’s Phil by the way,” he said, as if he were talking to the butter dish.

“Phil? Really?” He could hear the grin on Clint’s face in his voice. “It suits you.”

Dinner was amazing, Coulson utterly surprised Clint with his cooking abilities and made Italian, really good Italian. “So,” Clint smirked at him after his first mouthful, “is the rule of ‘you’ll cook for me if I’m good’ a permanent rule?”

“Would you behave?” Phil let himself smile a little, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

“This beer’s going to your head,” Clint chinked his bottle against the older man’s. “You almost had a facial expression then.”

“Shut up and eat, Barton,” Phil laughed, easily relaxing into the evening.

It wasn’t until much later on, with the dinner plates cleared away, as they were sat on either end of the sofa that Clint had the courage to ask, “Why are you doing this, Sir?”

“Doing what?” Phil’s brow furrowed slightly.

“Y’know,” Clint waved a hand vaguely at himself. “Me.”

“Wasn’t aware I was doing you, Barton,” Coulson smirked at him slightly.

Clint sighed, loudly, “You know what I mean Sir, I’m a sub who won’t follow orders, doesn’t like being told what to do and really doesn’t like being knocked around. What can you see in that?”

“Is that what you think Doms do?” Phil asked softly, he half resisted the urge to reach out to Barton and then decided better of it, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. “It’s not all about beating people up, you know.”

The frown on Clint’s face told him all he needed to know, with the archer adding, “That’s what all the Doms I’ve met before do.”

“No,” Coulson protested softly. “I don’t want to hurt you for one.”

“That’s good,” Clint laughed nervously.

“Protect you, yes, cherish you, but never hurt you.” Phil let his hand come up to cup Clint’s face, “God, Clint, you’re so gorgeous I can’t imagine how anyone would want to hurt you.”

Clint smiled, a softer smile than his usual grin, but perhaps all the more real for it. “How does that make you a Dom, Sir?” he asked timidly.

Coulson let his thumb stroke Clint’s cheekbone, “Dominating someone isn’t about hurting them, it’s about being in control, I’d rather do that by getting my sub to trust me to the point where they do what I say without questioning, by pleasuring them when they do well, than by forcing them to do my will and punishing them when they make mistakes.”

“So you wouldn’t ever punish me?” Clint grinned daringly at him.

Coulson couldn’t help but smile at that, not only because Clint had automatically assumed that he was the sub Phil had been talking about, but also because he knew what Barton was like. “Of course I would,” he laughed, “you’re the worst behaved person I’ve ever met.” His eyes darkened slightly as he added, “And besides, I’m well aware there are some punishments you quite enjoy.” He didn’t add he’d already thought of a few more that might tickle Clint’s fancy, there was a line between being interested and being obsessed and he knew when not to cross it.

Clint found himself almost blushing as Coulson looked at him with an intent he’d never seen before. “Are we doing this, Sir?” he asked softly, hesitantly, afraid of the answer.

“It would be serious,” Phil said gently. “I’m not a fan of casual relationships and I really don’t think your psyche could take one at the moment anyway.” He looked at Clint, waiting for the younger man to pull away at that, but to his surprise, Clint stayed right where he was, looking at Coulson, waiting for him to continue. “And we’d take it slow. I worry about hurting you all the time, we’ve both got issues we’d need to work though.”

At that, Clint did look away. “You don’t have to deal with my issues, Sir,” he said stubbornly.

Phil used the hand still resting on Clint’s cheek to force the archer to meet his gaze, “If you want to be my sub, Clint,” he said sternly, “you have to let me deal with all of your problems for you, that’s how it works.”

The whimper that stuck at the back of Clint’s throat was evidence enough of how he felt about it.

“I’m going to kiss you now, Clint,” Phil said gently, moving slightly towards him. “Is that alright with you?”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint whispered, barely more than a breath.

His hand still on the side of Clint’s face, his thumb still caressing Clint’s cheekbone, Coulson pulled him in and softly pressed their lips together.

Clint yielded immediately, there was no struggle for the upper hand between them. Coulson’s kiss was firm and warm and over too briefly; as he pulled away, Clint let his head fall forward so his forehead was resting on Phil’s shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” Coulson whispered gently, wrapping both arms around Clint and pulling him into a hug. “I’ve got you.”

It’s three months before they even start to experiment with each other sexually - when Coulson said they were taking things slowly he really meant it. They take things at their own pace, learning about each other as they do, Coulson learns Barton doesn’t take kindly to being restrained, but is quite happy to be pushed around, Clint learns that where he loves to be on his knees in front of Phil, Phil also loves to do the same to him, wanting to pleasure him when he’s been good.

It’s only a few weeks however before Coulson turns to Clint and asks him to move in. “I know we’re taking things slow,” he explained, “but I’m really struggling having you living in barracks surrounded by a bunch of untrustworthy Doms.” He’d stroked a hand through Clint’s short hair, “I hope that’s not a problem.”

Clint chewed on his lip as he thought before acquiescing. “OK,” he said softly, “that would be OK.”

“You’re sure?” Phil pulled him closer. “I don’t want to be forcing something on you that you don’t want. If you’d rather not, I will deal with my issues.”   
“No,” Clint let himself rest against Phil’s chest. “I like the fact you want to look after me,” he admitted, feeling more able to talk about his actual feelings with his face in Phil’s shirt. “It’s nice.”

“Good,” Phil pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “We’ll move your stuff over tonight.”


	3. Chapter 3

One afternoon, Barton found himself standing on the range, training as always, alongside a bunch of new recruits being trained by one of the more senior agents. He was happily minding his own business, when the senior agent called him over.

“Barton,” she said brusquely, “I’d like you to demo some correct sniper positions for these recruits.” She shot him a look which clearly indicated they didn’t have a clue what they were doing.

“Sure,” he shrugged in reply, just because he only really followed orders from Coulson didn’t mean he wasn’t prepared to help out in a task he’d enjoy anyway. He spent a few minutes under her instruction showing exactly what they should be doing and then, as they started to try things out themselves, he wandered round quietly correcting them. He’d already pointed a few in the right direction when he told one of the rookies to alter her elbow position.

“Fuck off,” she snarled in response, “I’ll do what I’m told by someone of authority.” She stood up, turning to her instructor, “I’ve heard what they say about him and I’m not taking orders from a sub, a fucking uncollared sub at that.”

Instantly Clint was on the defensive, stepping into her body space, “Is this an issue?” he snarled.

From across the room a familiar voice called out, “Barton! Stand down.”

Clint found himself stepping back, eyes on the floor, instinctively obeying Coulson’s voice before he realised what he was doing.

Phil walked calmly over to the two of them, and turned to Clint first. “Barton, my office,” he said with a sigh.

“Sir,” Clint muttered in reply, focusing all his concentration on stopping his ears flaming red with embarrassment.

“And you?” Phil turned to the young recruit, “Jenkins, isn’t it?”

“Sir,” she nodded to him, her eyes bright with resentment and righteous anger.

“You too,” he replied, barely concealing the venom in his voice. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, noticing Clint falling into his usual place at his heel. Jenkins paused for a moment, and was shooed out of the room by the sniping instructor, before hurrying to catch up with them.

As they got to his office, Coulson unlocked the door and went and sat behind his desk. He looked at the pair of them standing in front of him and nodded towards the sofa. “Barton, take a seat,” he ordered.

Not bothering to hide the smirk on his face, Clint threw himself down on the sofa, lounging casually.

“Now, Agent Jenkins,” Coulson didn’t even look up at her as he started filling in the form in front of him. “What you did back there was not only disrespectful, but was incredibly stupid.” He sighed, “I don’t care what your opinions on someone else’s orientation is, but we here at SHIELD expect you to become the best - and to be the best, you need to learn from the best.” He lifted his eyes to her, “Am I correct?”

“Sir,” she admitted reluctantly.

“And as such, would you rather learn from some cocky Dom who thinks he’s the best in SHIELD at firearms and projectiles, or would you rather learn from Barton - who is the best.”

She squirmed awkwardly for a moment, before muttered quietly, “Barton.”

“That’s ‘Barton, Sir,’” Coulson corrected her, the corner of his mouth twitching up was barely noticeable, but Clint knew it was his version of a full out smirk. “Just because you’re a Dom and he’s a sub it makes no difference - you still both have to do what I tell you.”

“Sorry, Sir,” she apologised, suitably chastised.

“Take this,” he handed her the paperwork he’d been filling in. “It’s instructions for you to attend one of our seminars on Submissive Rights Within the Workplace.” At the look of utter disappointment on her face he took pity and added, “You are dismissed.”

“Sir,” she muttered back, and turned on her heel, heading out of the door.

Waiting until he heard her footsteps quieten down the corridor, Phil stood and rounded the desk, he carefully locked the door and closed the blinds, before wondering over to where Clint was sat and kneeling down in front of him, his hands on the sub’s knees. “You did really well out there.” He let himself smile, something he never did at work, “I’m really proud of you.”

“Sir?” Clint questioned, the title much softer and respectful than when Jenkins had been using it.

“You obeyed my orders without question,” Phil explained, reaching out to caress Clint’s face. “Even though it wasn’t an easy order for you to obey. I’m proud of you.”

Clint let himself relax, he hadn’t known if he were going to get told off as well as Jenkins. “Thank you, Sir,” he said softly.

“I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?” Phil let his hand drop to Clint’s neck, stroking it softly. “What would you like?”   
“What would I like?” Clint spluttered in surprise, although Phil had frequently rewarded him for good behaviour, he’d never been allowed to choose the reward himself.

“You’ve been really good, Clint,” Phil said softly, letting his fingers curl softly against the sensitive skin of Clint’s neck. “I think you deserve whatever you’d like.”

Clint paused for a moment, his mind racing with possibilities. “Can you,” he paused, flushing pink, “would you suck me off?” he asked tentatively.

“Is that all?” Phil let himself grin. “I’ll do it if you want, but I really mean you can have anything you want.”

“Oh,” Clint muttered softly, before letting his eyes drift away from Phil’s intense gaze. “Can we,” he felt like a nervous teenager all over again, “can we have sex?”

“Certainly,” Phil said decisively, he’d been hoping for that request. “Do you want me to fuck you? Or would you like to fuck me?”

“Christ,” Clint gasped in surprise, “that’s even an option?” He could feel himself getting lightheaded with the anticipation and just the feel of Phil’s hand against his skin, “You’d let me?”

“Of course,” Coulson let his other hand slide to Clint’s waist, fingertips underneath the hem of his t-shirt. “I said anything you want.”

Clint paused for a moment, his mind reeling before he said quietly, “No, I’d like you to fuck me.”

“You’re sure?” 

“Will I,” Clint could feel his face burning bright red, “will I be able to do the other thing some other time maybe?”

Phil grinned at him, his expression verging on predatory. “If you’re good,” he promised.

Clint took a deep breath. “Then I’d like you to fuck me,” he said, more confidently than anything he’d said before. “I’ve never done it before - but I’d like you to.”

“I’ll be gentle with you,” Phil promised, standing up and reaching out a hand, he pulled Clint into his arms before muttering into his hair, “I’m going to make you feel so good.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Clint managed to answer obediently, already feeling the arousal building inside of him. He watched in quiet anticipation as Phil packed all of his paperwork into his briefcase and powered down his PC for the night - Phil leaving work at a regular time of day was reward in itself, let alone what was promised when they got home. He fell into step behind Coulson as they walked down the corridor, both of them ignoring the shocked looks they got from the security desk at Phil’s early departure.

Clint climbed obediently into the passenger seat of the car, he’d long ago learnt he could ask all he wanted, Phil wasn’t going to let him drive. He sat on his hands, waiting patiently as Phil stopped at a take-away on the way home biting his tongue to stop himself saying they didn’t need to have dinner and could they just get to the sex part please. He knew what he was getting was a reward and, if he didn’t continue to be good, he might not get it.

They chatted quietly and amiably through dinner, avoiding talking about work, but not talking about anything intimate either. Clint found himself fidgeting with anticipation, but stilling every time Phil glanced his way, desperate not to ruin his good behaviour.

After dinner Coulson took his plate away, sitting back down on the sofa, hands empty. He looked at Clint expectantly, “How would you feel if I asked you to kneel for me?”

“I’ll give it a try, Sir,” Clint said honestly, shifting off the sofa to kneel at Phil’s feet. It was awkward at first, but Phil’s hand moved to the back of his neck stroking softly and Clint couldn't help but lean his head against Phil’s knee.

“I’ll ask you again, because I want to check,” Phil said softly. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes please Sir,” Clint said, so softly it was barely audible. 

“Shall we go upstairs?” It was phrased as a question, but he made it perfectly clear it wasn’t one. Phil twisted his fingers in the back of Clint’s top, pulling him up as he stood up himself.

Clint let Coulson shove him up the stairs, allowing him to push him around easily despite the fact Clint could have stopped him if he wanted, what mattered was that he didn’t want to.

“Strip for me,” Phil ordered, his voice low and stern.

Clint couldn’t stop the shiver that slid down his spine. He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, crossing his arms to take his t-shirt off in one smooth movement. He couldn’t help smirking at Coulson over his shoulder as his fingers went to the button on his fly.

“Something to be proud of, Specialist?” Phil glared at him, instantly wiping the smile off of Clint’s face.

“Sorry, Sir,” Clint let his head bow, amazed at how easily he obeyed Coulson. He let his combat trousers slide to the floor, reaching down to take off his socks. He started to turn around but was stopped by Phil’s voice.

“All of it Barton,” he said, steel in his voice.

Clint hooked his thumbs under the elastic of his boxers, amazed at how hard his cock was just from the way Phil had been treating him. Stepping slowly out of them, he turned around to face Coulson, his eyes carefully fixed on the floor. As he stood there, looking at nothing he could feel Coulson’s eyes raking over him, he couldn’t stop himself asking with a laugh. “See something you like, Sir?”

Phil raised an eyebrow at him, “You’ve yet to impress me, Barton.” He slid his suit jacket off his shoulders, hanging it on the back of a chair and untying his tie. He unbuttoned his shirt but didn’t take it off, his hands reaching to undo his trousers before he ordered, “Kneel.”

Clint felt himself drop to his knees before he’d consciously realised he was obeying the order - it was something he’d almost experienced before, obeying Coulson’s orders without thinking about them, but never in that situation.

“That’s a good pet,” Phil smirked at him, his voice edging on patronising, but Clint couldn’t help but lean into his touch as he reached out to lace his fingers through his hair. “You can suck my cock if you want,” he said generously, as he moved half a step forward.

Clint opened his mouth wide and eagerly took Phil’s cock in his mouth, sucking and licking, his hands clasped behind his back, doing his utmost to please his handler before Phil pulled away from him. “On the bed for me, Clint.”

Clint couldn’t help but whimper as Coulson pulled away from him, but climbed obediently on the bed, kneeling on all fours, presenting himself to Phil.

“Do you want me to prepare you or do you want to prepare yourself?”

Clint bit his lip, too far gone to be able to make decisions himself. “I don’t know, Sir,” he stammered.

“If I prepare you will you be able to stop yourself coming?” Phil asked, a moment of sincerity.

“I won’t do until you tell me to, Sir,” Clint found himself answering, amazed at how quickly and how easily he submitted to Coulson.

“Good,” Coulson smiled softly, before moving around to the bedside table to retrieve the bottle of lube. He spread a little on his fingers, making sure to warm it up a little before he let his other hand trail down Clint’s back, one gentle finger heading for his tight opening. “Do you want this?” he asked for the third time.

“Yes, please Sir.” Clint whimpered. “I need you.”

Coulson knelt over him, leaning down to press a kiss to his shoulder. “OK,” he whispered, “just because you’ve been such a good boy today.” He let one slick finger slide inside the other man, relishing in the way Clint tightened around him. “More?” he asked softly, his lips brushing against Clint’s neck as he spoke.

“Oh God, please Sir, yes Sir,” Clint murmured reverently under his breath.

“Since you asked so nicely,” Phil laughed softly, sliding a second finger inside Clint. He stretched him slowly, gently, revelling in the way Clint became a gibbering wreck underneath him, thrusting into thin air in a desperate attempt to find some relief for his cock. He took his time about it, waiting until Clint was completely ready before he slicked a handful of lube over his own cock, deliberately being more generous than he thought he needed to be. “Are you ready for me, Clint?” he asked gently.

“Yes please Sir,” Clint gabbled, leaning forward on his arms so he could bury his face in the bed clothes. It burnt as Coulson slid inside of him, but the older man’s hands on his waist soothing him made it that bit easier to take and before long all he could feel was the pleasure of Coulson thrusting inside him, brushing up against the spot that made him see stars.

Phil bit his lower lip, glad Clint was facing away from him, unable to see the amount he was losing control. He knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer, so he slid an arm around Clint’s waist and wrapped his hand around the younger man’s cock.

Clint let out a most undignified moan, letting his face fall forward into the pillows, he couldn’t feel or think anything except the feel of Phil’s hand around his cock and Phil’s own cock thrusting into him.

“Can you?” Phil whispered quietly in his ear.

Clint nodded, unable to speak through his mouthful of bedding.

“Come for me, Clint,” Phil ordered, and it was the last thing he managed to say with any sort of control, gasping aloud as Clint gripped around him as he came, spurting his own come inside the younger man.

Clint came around to the feel of Coulson lying behind him, he’d been twisted onto his side, but Coulson’s cock was still buried deep inside of him. He half mumbled something incoherent at the older man.

“Are you OK, Clint?” Phil whispered softly against his neck, tightening his grip on the archer so he pulled Clint flush against his chest.

“Fuck yes,” Clint mumbled back in response. “You’re awesome,” he slurred softly.

“I’m glad you think so,” Phil grinned, his lips brushing against the back of Clint’s neck as he did so. “You want me to go clean you up?”

Clint just let out a soft noise of protest, words virtually beyond him, and clung tightly to the arm Coulson had slung around his waist.

“OK then,” Phil agreed happily. “I’ll stay here.”


	4. Chapter 4

The day Clint reads The Black Widow’s file he’s hooked. Technically it’s a level seven clearance file, but as Phil’s sub he’s an extension of Phil, so anything Phil can read, he can read, even if nobody knows they are together. He reads about the Russian girl with no apparent family and no record of her childhood, who has evaded every special forces unit in every country across the globe.

“Are you going to get her?” he asked Phil.

“I’m going to try,” his handler responded honestly, he was sat on the sofa at home, files spread out across the other seat, Clint on the floor at his knees, head resting softly against his leg.

“Am I allowed to come?” Clint grinned up at him, the sparkle of excitement in his eyes.

Phil smiled back at him indulgently, reaching out a hand to ruffle his hair, “Of course. I’ve already requested you.”

They travel together through Europe for over a month chasing down leads that take them nowhere before they actually get some valuable information. They trace the Widow to a job she is running in London, and Phil has to make countless phone calls to MI6 persuading them that no, having Bond go out and seduce her really isn’t going to work, before they have the clearance to move where they need to go.

Phil wanted to take her out before she completed her own task; they needed to take her back to SHIELD for questioning and possible asset assessment and the best they’ll get after she’s finished what she needs to do and is on the run is a kill shot. Clint on the other hand thought that was pretty bad form and wanted to let her finish first.

“I can do it,” Clint promised. “I’ll get her on the way out and I’ll get her in such a way that you can still use her afterwards.”

“I need you to be 100% sure you can do this, Barton,” Phil said sternly.

“Trust me, Sir,” Clint replied sincerely. “I can do this.”

He waited until her op was finished and then tracked her, running across rooftops keeping her in his sights until she turned down a darkened alleyway, and only then did he shoot.

To her credit she made no sound as she went down. He was on the floor by the time she’d managed to stand again and she turned to run away from him, slap bang into Phil, who knocked her out with the butt of his gun.

“You shot her!” he protested, turning on Barton.

“Only in the leg Sir,” Barton grinned cheekily back to him. “I thought that was an acceptable way of bringing an asset in.”

“You’re an ass, Barton,” Phil sighed, but with a hint of affection in his voice, before he knelt down and stripped the Widow of all her weapons. He made Barton carry her back to their extraction as a punishment.

Clint didn’t see Phil for the next week, he was so busy interrogating The Widow that he didn’t even have time to come home, and was locked away all day at work. Still Clint was used to being on his own and settled into a routine, perfecting his training and reading up on his next mission.

He was sat in the dining hall one day, alone as per usual, no-one wanted to be seen sat with a registered sub, especially one that was so badly behaved, nobody could deal with the humiliation of everyone thinking Clint was theirs. He looked up confused, as a shadow fell across his plate, to see The Black Widow staring down at him, a tray of food in her hands.

“You shot me,” she said, venom laced through her heavy Russian accent. The entire cafeteria had gone silent, watching their exchange.

“In the leg,” Barton stared up at her defiantly.

She pursed her lips for a moment, before nodding, a look of approval on her face. “Good shot.” She shrugged, “Can I join you?”

“Sure thing,” Clint pushed the chair out opposite him with the toe of his boot. “Have a seat.”

Whispers started to pick up in the cafeteria around them, oiling the wheels of the gossip machine that SHIELD was, but Clint was quite adept at ignoring them by now. “Clint Barton,” he introduced himself.

“Natasha.” She stared back at him, “I think they have given me the surname here of Romanov, but it’s shit.”

Clint snorted over his dinner. “It does make you sound like a cheesy villain,” he admitted. “You done with interviews from Phil yet?”

“He’s the one with you, yes?” she asked. “Not the pirate.”

Clint found himself doubled over with laughter. “Jesus,” he giggled, “you can’t be heard calling Fury a pirate, he’ll have you killed off.”

“He won’t,” Natasha smirked at him. “He’s worked so hard to get me here.”

“But the other guy,” Clint explained, “Coulson, he’s my handler.” He couldn’t keep the note of pride out of his voice.

“He’s cool,” Natasha admitted, pointing at him with her fork as she stared menacingly at him. “He didn’t shoot me.”

It had been so long since Clint had had a friend he’d almost forgotten what it was like, but it was pleasant, meeting Natasha every day for lunch, training together at the range, sparring with each other in the gym. They didn't talk much, but neither of them were talkers and the quiet companionship came easier than expected for both of them.

They were sat at the table one day when Richards sauntered over. “Alright Barton,” he started, clearly looking for a fight.

“Oh fuck off,” Clint sighed, he didn’t want to get into a fight with Richards, he knew he’d be punished for it, and pretty severely.

“Oi, Romanov,” Richards turned to Natasha. “Keep your sub in line.”

Natasha let out a snort of laughter, the first time she’d shown amusement since Clint had met her. “He’s not mine,” she shook her head disparagingly. “And I don’t have to keep him in line.”

“You’re having lunch alone with an uncollared declared sub?” Richards spluttered in surprise. “That’s a bit...” he trailed off, leaving his disappointment hanging in the air.

“I’m having lunch with a fellow specialist,” she shook her head at him, deliberately using their correct titles, knowing he was only an agent. “So do as he says, and fuck off before we make you.”

Clint found himself smirking as Richards scuttled away, well aware of Natasha’s reputation. “Thanks,” he said quietly once he’d gone, “but you don’t have to sit with me if you don’t want,” he shrugged. “I am a registered sub.”

“Fuck off,” she said fondly. “So everyone else thinks it’s weird. Your society sucks.”

“Thanks,” Clint grinned at her openly.

Natasha left it at that, until they were wondering back to her room late that night, falling into their usual habit of playing poker and drinking late into the night whenever Phil was busy. “Why did he call you uncollared?” she asked, a look of suspicion on her face.

“Cause I am?” Clint dragged the collar of his shirt down. “No collar, see?”

“Yes,” Natasha frowned. “But why not?”

Clint turned to her, looking at her like she was an idiot. “Because I don’t have a Dom,” he said, his tone nothing but patronising. He and Phil had agreed to keep their relationship a secret, partially because it might mar relationships with their colleagues, but mostly because, irrational though it was, Clint hated people knowing that there was someone who could dominate him, he couldn’t let strangers see that kind of weakness.

Natasha let out a laugh, the rare bell-like laugh that rang out when she was truly amused. “Don’t lie to me Barton,” she giggled, “Coulson’s your Dom.”

“Shhh!” Clint hushed her. “No he’s not!” He frowned for a moment before adding sulkily, “He’s my handler.”

Natasha shook her head at him, a smile still on her lips. “Semantics,” she argued. “You submit to him regardless of what you call him,” she unlocked the door to her room, pushing him in.

“What makes you say that?” Clint muttered sulkily. “I don’t submit to anyone.”

“Please,” Natasha laughed, flopping down on the bed, showing her trust in Clint. “So you don’t always do what he says and you argue with him more than anyone else, but I’ve seen the way you bare your neck when he walks into the room.”

“I don’t!” Clint protested, the tips of his ears flushing bright red. For a moment he managed to hold Natasha’s disbelieving gaze, a longer moment than most others would have managed, but he crumbled eventually. “Do I really?” he sighed, sitting down on the chair opposite.

“Really,” Natasha grinned at him. “I thought it was quite sweet.“ She caught the look on his face and her expression turned more serious. “I don’t think anyone but me will notice, Clint,” she said softly. “I’m trained to look for these sorts of things, trained harder and better than anyone you know.”

“Just because I’m a sub, doesn’t make me weak,” Clint muttered, glaring at her.

“I know,” Natasha sat up, staring intently at him. “You’re better and stronger than most of the people here and that’s what I judge you on. Not on your need to submit.”


End file.
